“Nomes. Let it go. Yocheved will come around. It’s not your problem, okay? You did your best, you apologized, whether you needed to or not. She’s a big girl, she’ll come to her senses.”

Once, in third grade, our teacher, Mrs. Mandelbaum, told us to dress up like our book report characters for the next day. So I put my all into my Martha Washington costume. Makeup, dress, bonnet, clogs. I mean, I really sold it. If Martha Washington were four feet tall and lived in the 21st century, we would be doppelgangers. I arrived at school beaming, only to realize that Mrs. Mandelbaum had meant we should dress up as book report characters the following week, at the Mother and Daughter Evening.

That was awkward.

But sitting here silently with Yocheved makes that faux pas seem like a witty anecdote. The awkwardness in Yocheved’s Sienna is so thick you can cut it with a knife and serve slices to the entire Taub family.

When I got into the car, I looked in the back at the empty car seat, and back at Yocheved. The side of her mouth had curled up; I’d sunk back in my seat and have been hunched here ever since.

Honestly, I’m too tired for this. I just want a burning hot shower, then clean, crisp sheets that don’t smell like the forest and sunscreen, and to sleep for 27 hours straight.

Instead, I’m sitting here, sweating away and too intimidated to ask my older sister to turn on the A/C. I look at her sideways. She looks as pretty and fresh-faced as always, seemingly completely unbothered by the heat.

I shift. Time to break this silence.